


Moving On

by tiranog



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:46:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiranog/pseuds/tiranog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Harold get a little more than they bargained for when they go out to dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilvalen@aol.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aprilvalen%40aol.com).



> An early birthday story for Person of Interest's biggest fan. Happy Birthday, April Valentine!

"Mr. Reese, did Ms. Addison make it home all right?" Harold Finch's concerned voice sounded in John Reese's ear as he paused outside their latest number's Chelsea apartment to enjoy the October breeze. 

When they'd first started working the numbers, that nasal voice in his ear used to irritate the hell out of him. Now . . . Harold was the first voice he heard in the morning and the last one he heard before locking his loft door behind him at night. It had become a constant and comforting for that reason.

"Yes. She's home safe and Carter's booking her stalker as we speak. He's probably going to be doing three to five for possession, so I don't think he'll be bothering her for a long time," John diligently reported.

"Possession? But . . . Mr. Landon wasn't a drug user."

"We weren't going to be able to get a conviction on what we had, Harold. All of our surveillance was illegal and inadmissible. The only other solutions were a permanent one or a long drive to Torreon."

John could nearly touch his partner's disapproval in the quality of the silence. After a moment, Harold vented a deep sigh and said, "I suppose, given the choices, it was the best solution."

John relaxed. Time was, he would have received a lecture on CIA moral ambiguity and how they strove for higher standards. 

"We get a new number?" John asked, as ever reluctant to return to his empty place. The loft Harold had bought him sure beat the cheap hotels he used to live in, but he still hated how utterly silent the place was.

"Not yet," Harold answered, adding a sharper, "Drop it, Bear!"

"Have you got plans tonight, Harold?" John asked, holding his breath. There was nothing worse than a beautiful Friday night with no one to spend it with. Harold was always so busy maintaining his numerous identities and business obligations that he rarely had large blocks of free time – unlike off duty fixers. More and more, John found himself craving Harold's company, but he knew how his partner cherished his solitude and privacy. Harold liked being alone. Most of the time, John didn't mind it himself. But every now and then, like tonight, he felt the need for some human contact. And Harold was the human he liked the most.

Wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, John waited to hear what Harold would say. 

The voice that answered in his ear didn't seem put upon or suspicious. Harold gave a surprised sounding, "No, no plans. What did you have in mind?"

Thinking fast, John suggested, "How about dinner at that sidewalk café on Minetta? We can bring Bear."

"The Mid-Eastern place?"

John gave a smile at the tempted tone. Harold's morals might be beyond reproach, but he was definitely swayable via his stomach. "Yes."

"We'll be downstairs and waiting in five minutes."

"Better give me ten," John replied. "Traffic's heavy."

Fifteen minutes later, the car was parked and John was turning the corner closest to where their Library HQ's alley let out. 

A ridiculously warm feeling shot through him as he caught sight of the ever-dapper Harold in his three thousand dollar suit and vest standing with Bear out by the curb waiting for him. 

John played a little game with himself most days, trying to guess what suit, tie, and vest his partner would be wearing. He never guessed right. And, Harold rarely wore the same suit twice. They were so busy on the Addison case that he hadn't seen Harold yet today. This morning, he'd wagered with himself that Harold would be wearing a brown suit and rust vest to celebrate the newly turned autumn leaves. Contrary as usual, Harold was wearing a navy suit, lilac shirt, deep purple vest, and a tie that looked pink to John.

"What are you smiling at?" Harold asked as John joined him.

"I lost a bet. You're not wearing brown," John explained, bending down to pet the excited Bear.

"You were betting on what color I was wearing?" At John's nod, Harold asked in a more concerned tone, "With whom were you betting?"

"Myself," John answered. "I lose every day."

"If you don't mind my saying, you really need to get out more, Mr. Reese." Despite his words, Harold looked pleased, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

"Thought that was what we were doing," John answered, rising back to his feet with a thoroughly licked face.

"So we are," Harold agreed and fell into step beside John as they headed downtown. 

John was careful to modify his pace so Harold didn't have to rush to keep up with him. 

The evening was clear with just a bite of autumn in the breeze. The sun was setting off to the west, adding an autumnal golden glow to everything as it sank towards the Hudson. It was a bit of a distance from the 14th Street Library over to Minetta Place, but it was the perfect night for a long walk. Half the city apparently had the same idea, for John's little group spent the walk dodging rushing pedestrians intent on tripping themselves on Bear's leash.

"I'm glad you suggested this," Harold said after a block or so of comfortable silence. "I get so caught up on the computer that I forget to eat."

"I know," John said. "I figured we should enjoy this nice weather while it lasts."

"You're right. Winter is coming." Harold paused beside him on the busy sidewalk, a wide smile on his face, an expectant gleam in his eyes.

"Clearly, I'm missing something," John said as Harold's smile faded to faint disappointment. 

"You never read those books I gave you when you were recuperating last year, did you?"

"Er, no. Sorry."

"You don't watch much television either, I take it," Harold remarked.

"Not much. The reference was from a book and a television show?"

"Game of Thrones. Probably the most popular fantasy series since Harry Potter," Harold said.

"I did see Harry Potter," John offered, feeling like he'd been called to task after shirking off a homework assignment.

"Only because I made you watch the movies while you were recuperating. What do you do with your time when we're not working a case?"

"Do you really want to know, Harold? Social convention would require you to offer a similar piece of personal trivia in exchange. You sure it wouldn't be violating your sacred privacy?" John teased with a quirk of his brow.

Harold appeared to debate the idea for a moment before conceding, "I agree to exchange one harmless piece of personal trivia in exchange for one of yours. What do you do in your off duty time?"

Abruptly uncertain, John confessed, "I spend a lot of it waiting for you to call with the next number. When I was with the Rangers and the Company, I used to do what many off duty soldiers do – drink. I don't drink alone anymore, not since I started working for you. When we're not on a case, I play xiangqi in the park with a friend and work out in a dojo down in Chinatown. What about you? What do you do for entertainment when we're not saving the world?"

That last absurdity made Harold smile. "Nathan used to call me the model for the stereotypic geek. When I'm not tinkering with the computer in my spare time, I'm reading or, more rarely, watching television. I prefer science fiction or fantasy. And Charles Dickens, of course."

"Of course." John had to smile at the last addendum. Harold was such a blend of contrasts – his partner's passion for classical fiction was only eclipsed by his love of cutting age technology. His friend was such a refined gentleman at heart that John sometimes had difficulty understanding what Harold saw in him. But Harold never seemed to hold his past against him. "So this Game of Thrones is good?"

"Come back to the library after dinner and we'll watch the first few episodes on Netflix," Harold invited.

"Sounds like a plan." John was surprised by the excitement that sparked through him at the prospect. It was, after all, a pretty tame way to pass the time by most people's standards, but John was beginning to realize that he'd be perfectly content to watch Computer Programming Training vids in this man's company. He'd learned a long time ago that Harold's dry wit was more entertaining than most comedy clubs.

Before he knew it, they were turning onto McDougall Street, which intersected with Minetta Lane. John was checking out the bizarre display of jewelry and antiquities in the window of a closed shop when an alarm sounded from Harold's pocket. 

His partner froze, something like panic twisting Harold's face as he muttered, "It's Grace," and started scanning the nearby area as he ducked into the jewelry store's recessed entryway to hide.

Harold and he seemed to spot Grace Hendricks at the same moment. 

The pretty redhead to whom Harold had been engaged before the government had tried to kill him was sitting at a sidewalk table in the very café they'd been planning to eat in. Harold needn't have worried about Grace noticing him in the passing crowd. 

"Oh," Harold's voice carried a world of pain as he took in the sight on the opposite side of the street.

Grace wasn't alone. A handsome, athletic man in his late forties with curly brown hair and a winning smile sat across from her. The stranger was dressed in the kind of soft denim that strove to look casual, but cost more than most business suits. He had a bohemian air to him that suited Grace's artistic style. As John watched, the guy leaned over the table to share a deep kiss with Grace. It was clearly neither a first date nor a first kiss.

Wincing in sympathy for what Harold had to be going through, John took his frozen partner's elbow and quickly reversed direction, heading back towards West Third. Harold followed him like an automaton with Bear in tow. Whatever emotions they were telegraphing must have been intense because the dog didn't stop once to sniff as they high tailed it out of the area.

John didn't like the closed down expression on Harold's face the few times he peeked over as they made their hasty retreat. He steered them away from Washington Square Park, which Grace's brownstone overlooked, thinking that all his friend needed was to see Grace take her new boyfriend home for the night.

A few blocks later, Harold said in a small voice, "I always knew this day would come."

Hating his partner's crushed tone and barely masked pain, John softly offered, "I'm sorry, Harold."

"She waited much longer than I thought she would," Harold continued.

"I'll check him out. Make sure he's okay," John said, feeling completely inadequate. There was no way to fix a situation like this.

"You don't have to," Harold said. "He's a good man."

"You know him?" John tried to contain his shock.

"He works for me. His name's Martin Fuller. He's the art director on one of the magazines I own. His contract requires him to purchase at least four covers from Grace every year. The details of publishing her art throw them together a lot. I should have seen this coming." 

Harold seemed to be talking more to himself than to him, John thought. It was the same nervous chatter his partner engaged in whenever Harold was attempting to distract himself from powerful emotions. John didn't have to wonder how upset Harold still was. They'd gone over four blocks and his incredibly private, touch-shy partner had yet to shrug off John's guiding hand on his elbow.

John looked around, getting his bearings. They were paused for a light at the corner of Waverley and Sixth. There were a couple of outdoor cafes nearby, a yuppie grill and a Thai place. Harold liked both types of food.

"Let's regroup over here," John suggested, leading them towards the nearest sidewalk café, which turned out to be the steak house.

Harold looked at the tables with their bright umbrellas and seemed to realize he was still in public. "I, er, probably won't be very good company. You might want to take a rain check on dinner."

"Let's not worry about that right now," John dismissed. "Let's sit down and get something to drink."

A quick discussion with the maître de saw them ensconced in a corner table, close to the restaurant wall where they wouldn't be very visible from the street. Bear settled down against the wall with his head resting on Harold's expensive Italian shoes and his rump on John's Rockports.

"Hi, my name's April," a way too happy blonde server with green eyes that matched their umbrella and an amazing smile greeted them, handing out menus and water glasses. "Can I get you something to drink besides water?"

John shot a questioning glance Harold's way. His partner barely seemed aware of their surroundings, his down bent gaze focused on his place setting. Recognizing that Harold wasn't up to the small stuff, John ordered for them, "We'll take a bottle of your best merlot. Three Ribeye Steaks." John gestured across the table, "He takes his medium rare. I like mine well done. The dog likes his rare. Mashed potatoes and vegetable sides on the humans'. No sides on the dog's."

"Lucky dog," April smiled. "I'll have your wine out in a minute. And I'll bring your furry friend a soup bowl of water."

"Thanks, April."

With all the conversations taking place at the tables surrounding them, their table could hardly be called quiet. The raw pain pulsing from the silent man across from John hurt more than that bullet he'd taken in the gut last year. "You did the right thing, Harold."

"I know. It's just – "

When words seemed to fail his eloquent partner, John added, "Hard, I know."

Their bread tray and wine arrived with another cheery exchange. When April left to take care of another table, Harold said, "I was going to ask you if it ever got easier, but I know it doesn't."

"The pain gets less sharp," John said, before hesitantly offering, "You've eased mine a lot."

That seemed to penetrate the misery walling Harold in. Startled blue eyes settled upon John.

Self-conscious, but unwilling to dissemble, John said, "I never had a friend like you before."

"Me, neither," Harold answered.

As a rule, Harold didn't lie to him. Still, John couldn't quite believe what Harold had just said. "You and Nathan – "

Harold gave a disdainful sounding snort, "Nathan was my . . . mentor into the human race. From the time we were in school together, he did his best to train me on how to pass for normal. He was a good man and a good friend, but he didn't get me. With Nathan, I was always aware of . . . being an outsider, of not fitting in. You don't make me feel that way."

"Because I'm so mainstream myself," John pointed out.

John's wry comment earned him a slight up twist of Harold's tight-pressed lips. "A happy codependency, then."

"Is that what we are?" John chuckled, so relieved to see Harold rallying that he didn't even try to disguise his pleasure. 

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be," Harold answered.

"That's from Vonnegut's Mother Night, isn't it?"

"Very good, Mr. Reese," Harold approved. "Do you know from where Mr. Vonnegut drew the reference?"

"No, but I have a good friend who could tell you if you ask him nice. Just steer clear of Dickens or he'll talk your ear off." John's attempt at humor actually seemed to have lifted Harold's spirits some, not wanting to lose the impetus, he asked, "So was it Dickens?"

"No, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's Faust."

"That's the play about the guy who makes a deal with the devil, isn't it?"

Harold nodded, "Among other things. Nathan always thought our deal with the government was very Faustian. It turned out, he was right about that, too."

Wondering if discussing his murdered partner was preferable to Harold than dwelling on his ex's new romance, John carefully said, "You hardly ever talk about Nathan."

"I set him up as our front man with the people we sold the Machine to and it got him killed. For all my paranoia, I couldn't keep either of us safe. At least I managed to keep Grace out of harm's way. She'll be happy now."

John had thought the same thing in that airport when he'd sent Jessica off to marry Peter Arndt. He had the sense to keep the observation to himself, confining his response to a soft, "You're a good man, Harold."

Harold shook his head, "No, I'm not."

"You spend all your time and untold millions of dollars saving strangers. If that doesn't define good, I don't know what does."

"Intention is everything. Like the government, I was originally willing to dismiss the Non Relevant List as none of my concern, until a truly good man lost his life attempting to get someone to pay attention to those doomed souls."

They were still talking about Nathan Ingram, John realized, as the key pieces to the puzzle that was Harold Finch finally fell into place. But understanding wasn't important right now. Comforting Harold was. He searched for something to say and finally settled on, "You really shouldn't blame yourself. It's an overwhelming job, Harold. No sane man would take it on."

Harold's mouth gave a fleeting upwards twist as the meaning of his words apparently filtered through his pain. "There is that. So, both our sanities are in question, then?"

John gave Harold one of his own rare smiles, "Yours might be in question. Mine isn't."

"Meaning?"

"My former line of work doesn't draw either the mentally stable or the spiritually sound," John answered. "We both know your original assessment of my mental state was right on target. Another month or two of living on the streets, and I would have eaten a bullet."

"That was almost two years ago, John. You're not that man who worked for the CIA anymore. You never really were."

It was just so like this gentle-hearted man to try to comfort him when Harold's own world was falling apart that John hardly knew how to reply. "And you're not the same man you were before you lost Nathan. I get that you feel responsible for what happened to your friend, but . . . I don't think there was anything you could have done to help most of the numbers without someone like me on board."

"If I had been paying attention to that Non Relevant List Nathan would never have – "

John cut Harold's guilty protest off, "Maybe Nathan mightn't have been killed that particular day if you'd seen his number on the list, but if a black ops team was targeting him, without a fixer like me, there wasn't anything either of you could have done to prevent what happened. Think about it, Harold. If I truly wanted someone dead – is there anything you can think of that would keep that person alive?" John watched the rather horrified looking realization dawn in Harold's eyes. "The team that took your friend out would have been as good as me and there would have been three of them."

"I . . . never thought about it like that before," Harold said slowly.

"I know that bad things have happened because of the people guarding the Machine you created, but the Machine is necessary. It saves more lives every day than any other security device I've seen. And, remember, Harold, we mightn't be able to save more than a handful of the people on the Non Relevant List, but we didn't put them in jeopardy. Nothing you or I did created their problems. Anything we do to help them, makes the world a better place."

"I created Nathan's problem. He was the front man, while I hid safe in the background like I always do."

"That neck and leg of yours doesn't look like you were hiding safe," John shot back, holding those tortured eyes. He still didn't know the full details as to how his partner had been injured, but he knew Finch well enough to know that Harold wouldn't have been sitting home in comfort while anyone he worked with was in danger. "I know you, Harold. You would never have done anything to knowingly endanger your partner. 

They both jumped as April arrived with a tray crowded with food. Once the plates were laid on the table, Harold cut up Bear's steak and then bent down to give it to Bear in the soup bowl it came in. They both watched Bear wolf the juicy meat down as soon as the bowl was level. When the steak was gone, Bear licked the bowl clean and then stared up at their meals with I'm Starving to Death Here eyes.

"Good try, buddy, but these are ours," John said.

With a pathetic sounding whine, Bear licked his bowl a few more times and then returned his head to Harold's shoe.

Harold and he turned their attention to their own meals. At least, John did. Harold took a couple of bites of his steak, then sipped his wine, that same abstracted pain blanketing him.

"Did you want something else?" John questioned.

"No. Thank you for ordering this for me," Harold added.

"How about you eat a little of it and then thank me?" John questioned.

Harold nodded and took a spoonful of mashed potatoes.

The silence stretched. John ate, while Harold picked at his food and drank his wine.

When John finished, Harold softly said, "I don't think I'm going to be able to finish this."

"It's okay."

"Would you mind if we took a rain check on the Game of Thrones marathon?" Harold asked.

"Of course not."

"Could you take Bear tonight?"

Worried, John began, "Harold . . . "

"I need some time alone. He'll be better with someone who's . . . not upset."

"Why don't you come home with me? You can have the bed. I'll camp out on the couch," John offered, not wanting Harold to walk away alone with that pain in his eyes.

Harold seemed genuinely surprised. "Thanks, but I . . . I really need to be alone. Can you take him?"

"Sure." Seeing that his partner was getting ready to flee, John quickly said, "If you need anything at all, even if it's just to talk, you call me. No matter what hour it is. Okay?"

Harold nodded and handed him Bear's leash. "Thank you, John." Those blue eyes scanned the table, before Harold asked, "The bill?"

"I got it. Take care of yourself, Harold."

"Thanks." With that, Harold stood up and slowly made his way through the other tables to the sidewalk. 

John watched his friend limp away with that stiff walk he had. It was his imagination, of course, for he knew Harold wasn't moving any differently than normal for him, but the man looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Bear gave a confused whine as Harold left and settled his head on John's knee. "I know, boy. He'll be all right. We'll make sure of it."

Wishing there was more he could do, John signaled their server for the bill, settled up, and started the long walk back to his car.

*~*~*

It was barely seven by the time John got back to the loft. With nothing better to do, he rented the first three episodes of that Game of Thrones show Harold had been talking about. He turned the set off at eleven, after the third episode finished. The show had been well written and action packed, but the scheming and plotting going on in it made it feel like a busman's holiday to him. If they'd been living in New York, more than half of the characters would have turned up as their numbers. Also, he had the firm belief that the main character, that Boromir guy, was going to be dead in a few more episodes if he didn't hire a fixer like him.

Vaguely depressed by the dark story and still worried about Harold, John took Bear for his last walk of the night and turned in before midnight.

The ringing phone pulled John out of a fitful sleep. 

"'lo?" John rasped, coming to the abrupt wakefulness the military had honed into him as he answered the late night call. His alarm clock said it was 2:21.

”Mischster Reessch?" Harold's decidedly slurred voice sounded a bit panicked.

"Harold? Are you okay?"

"I'm shorrry to bother you sho late," Harold began.

"No bother. What's going on?"

"I seem to have laas-losht my keyz," Harold quickly explained. "I had them when I got to the liberary, I mean, librarrry, but I can't find them now to lock the gates."

"I'll be right over."

"I'll meetshu downschtairs and you can lock up," Harold said.

"No." Picturing his obviously inebriated friend tumbling down that endless set of marble stairs in the dark, deserted library, John firmly ordered, "Stay right where you are. Promise me you won't move anywhere till I get there, Harold."

"'kay."

John quickly donned the sweatshirt and sweatpants he'd left out for his morning jog, pulled on a jacket, grabbed his gun, keys, wallet, and Bear, in that order, and headed out the door.

The streets were eerily empty and quiet as he drove back uptown from his Baxter Street loft to the 14th Street library. It was a strange time of the night for the City That Never Sleeps. The bars and clubs hadn't closed yet, so it was right before the Closing Time rush. Another hour or so and the streets and trains would be crowded with drunks, but right now, most of them were still safely indoors. Casual pedestrian traffic was at a minimum, confined mostly to drug dealers, prostitutes, and their clientele.

John took a chance and left the silver Accura his latest cover owned parked in a No Parking Zone in front of the library. He paused a minute to let Bear christen the nearest streetlight, then quickly entered through the locked security gates at the side of the library.

"Hey, Harold," John greeted as he and Bear entered HQ's control room. The computer area was a circle of light in the stygian tomb of books. Harold had left the upstairs gates unlocked behind him.

"Hi, John. Bear!" Harold returned with that blindingly sweet smile John had only seen once before, that time the fake Jordan Hester had dosed his friend with Ecstasy. In a flash, Bear was there at Finch's desk with his front paws on Harold's knees, bathing his sitting friend's face.

John took a quick second to absorb his surroundings. The only things that weren't here yesterday evening when he'd started surveillance on the Addison case were the half empty scotch bottle beside Harold's mouse pad and the 5X7 photo propped up on the desk in front of the monitor. Even from across the room, John could see it was a close up of Grace and Harold looking incredibly happy and in love.

"How are you doing, buddy?" John asked, moving over to his partner, who was still enveloped in an enthusiastic Bear greeting.

"I believe I might be dronk, Mischter Reesssch," Harold answered with deep solemnity.

"I believe you might be right, Harold," John returned, unable to keep the smile from his face.

"I usually am," Harold said, then giggled.

"Modest, too," John said, causing another giggle.

Unsurprisingly, Harold's eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but John was relieved to see that he wasn't actively grieving at the moment.

"I lost my keyz someplashe here. Can you help me find 'em?"

John did a quick reconnaissance of the limited available surfaces. Beyond their Ops Room, there were, of course, eight floors full of bookcases Harold might have left them on.

"Did you leave this floor?" John questioned, fearing the worst.

"No. Been sittin' here, philof…philoshophying about the natshure of love. Whatz your take on it, John?"

"Huh? John asked, bending down to check under the desk for the missing keys, and getting his ear licked by Bear in the bargain.

"Iz Tennyshun right? Or iz the J Geils Bhand?"

"Translation time, Harold," John said as he fended off the affectionate dog and moved Harold's feet enough to see that there was nothing down there but dust. "What was Tennyson right about?"

"Iz it bethur to have luved and lohst than never luved at all? Or was the J Geils Bhand right?

"What did they say?" John asked as he straightened back up and moved across the room to check the top of the nearest file cabinet.

A surprisingly melodic voice sang, "Luve Schtinks! Luve Schtinks! Yeahh! Yeahh!" and then Harold giggled again.

"So my choices are a Victorian poet or a punk rock band? Sounds like rather limited pickings, Harold."

"They were New Wave, not punk rock, schilly," Harold chastised him.

"What would I know about either of them?" John asked, moving to search the other side of the room. "You know I'm a country boy at heart."

"You're an ahmazzingly asoot…ashstute man."

"Astute enough to know you're drunk. How much of that stuff did you have?" John asked, considering the half empty bottle and wondering if a trip to the emergency room was in their near future.

"Just a cuppala glasshes."

"What glass did you use?"

Harold pulled one of the huge red disposable cups they used for water from between his monitor and a pile of books.

"You had two of those?"

Harold nodded.

It was bad, but not as bad as it could have been if his partner had gulped down a whole half a bottle on his own, John decided.

"Where did you get the scotch from? I didn't think you drank the hard stuff."

"I don't. Nathan left it here. Waz in the botthum drawer of the file cabinet."

John froze. "Nathan was here?"

He watched all levity drain from Harold's face. "He set the number board up. He waz tryin' to shave…save the nuhmbers from here with a .45. I made him schtop. Then they killed him."

And ever since then, Harold had devoted his life to carrying on the job Nathan had begun. Hurting even more for his friend, John decided to change the topic, realizing that pumping Harold for info when he was drunk wasn't any more honorable than questioning him when he was flying high on Ecstasy would have been. Seeing the keys nowhere in plain sight, he asked, "Which file cabinet was the scotch in?"

Harold pointed to the one whose top John had just checked. 

The first two drawers yielded nothing but crumbling paperwork. John knelt down and opened the bottom drawer. Sure enough, a big wad of keys lay atop a stack of ancient looking manila folders. "Found them."

"Great. Now I can go home."

"How are you going to get there?" John asked. 

"I ushally wahlk."

"Not at 3 AM and drunk you don't," John said.

"I can cahll for the char, ohnly…I lhet the driver go, didn't I?" 

"I think so," John confirmed. "You haven't shown up in a chauffeured limo anywhere in a long time."

"Can you drhive me home?" Harold asked.

"I don't think you're comfortable with me knowing where you live yet, Harold," John said before his inebriated friend could make a suggestion that might appeal to his baser instincts.

Sounding surprisingly like his normal self, save for the slurring, Harold remarked, "Shume people would thake ahdvantage ov this stitch..sitchuashun."

"Those people aren't your partner. If you ask me back to your place when you're stone cold sober, you got a deal. Like this, no way. Either we stay here or you come back to my place for the night. Those are your choices."

"I don't wanta stay here," Harold said. "The fayshes make me sad." He pointed to the other side of the room at the number board with pictures of those people who were lost before they started working together.

"Me, too," John said, touched by this charmingly sensitive drunk. "Come on, Harold. You're coming home with me." 

Harold rose from his chair and promptly plopped back down into it when his leg seemed to give out.

John moved quickly and gave his friend a hand up. Taking a firm hold on Harold's elbow, he started for the hall, Bear trailing behind them.

"It's sphooky out here," Harold said when they left HQ's little circle of light to start down the huge staircase. The only rooms that had black out shades on the windows and working lights were their control room and the bathroom. Everything else was dark and deserted.

Harold had never asked him to, but John had spent a ridiculous amount of time moving books off the stairs and the ground floor hall they walked to get to the stairwell, so at least the stairway wasn't an obstacle course anymore. "Yeah, it is kind of scary. But you know nothing will get past me to you."

"Not even ghoschts?"

"Not even ghosts. I promise."

"Did you ever shee one?" Harold questioned, moving so close to him that John could feel his body heat in the dark and smell the liquor on his breath.

"Not with my eyes open," John answered. "I've seen a lot of the people I turned into ghosts with my eyes closed."

"That musht be ahwfhul," Harold sounded sad again.

"There are some things one human just isn't meant to do to another. When you do them, it changes you," John explained, speaking as much to himself as his partner.

"There'z susch a thing az redempshun," Harold argued.

"Not for me, Harold," John denied.

"John . . . ." Harold sounded really upset as they locked the door behind them.

Outside in the pitch black alley, under the few stars bright enough to punch their way through the ever-present light pollution, John worked the final gate lock closed and said, "Don't worry about it. Nothing you pay me to do adds to those ghosts. If there is such a thing as redemption, maybe I'll earn it helping a good man like you save people. It's something to think about. Come on, let's find the car."

"You pahrkhed in the No Pahrkhing Zhone!" 

John stifled a smile at the horrified tone. This man had no qualms about hacking into the most secure, sensitive databases in existence, but he acted like an outraged schoolmarm over the strangest things. "The parking police didn't get us this time."

"Lucky fhor you. I might'uv been able to ghet you outta Rhikers, but no whay chould I fix a pharking tickhet."

John chuckled as he helped his partner into the passenger seat. "You are so drunk, my friend." Once Harold was buckled in, he shut the door and opened the back door. "In, Bear."

His passengers safely secured, John pulled out, headed down 14th Street to Broadway and took that down towards Chinatown.

They'd gone a couple of blocks when Harold complained, "Yhu nevher anshured my qwestshun."

"Which question?" John glanced over, hoping it was the dashboard illumination giving his friend's skin its greenish tint and not an urgent need to vomit.

"Whus Tennyshun or the J Geils Bhand rhight?"

"Neither. I think they're both pretty pessimistic. What's so funny?" John asked as his companion exploded into drunken laughter.

"Yhu callin' sumwon elsh peshamishtick."

"You're not exactly Laughing Boy, either, most days, Mister Pot Calling the Kettle Black Finch." That made Harold howl even louder. John decided he loved the sound of Harold's laughter.

"Szo who dho yhu think ghot it rhight, then?" Harold questioned.

"It's hokey. You'll laugh," John evaded, abruptly uncertain.

"Prohblee. Lesh yhu mished it, I'hmm dronk," Harold confided and started laughing again.

Feeling himself actually grin, John answered the ridiculous question, "You know I grew up in Washington State, pretty rural area, right?" John began. At Harold's nod, he continued, "I know it's hokey, but I always felt love was like a John Denver song. You know, a You Fill Up My Senses kinda thing. At least, that's how it felt with Jessica."

John expected his very urban, very sophisticated, very drunk partner to flambé him for his taste in music, but Harold gave a strange sounding gasp, instead of the expected laughter. When John glanced over, there were tears standing out in Harold's eyes and he looked like he was going to start bawling any second. "What? What did I say?"

"Grace luved hish muzick."

"Sorry, Harold." John grimaced and pulled into his building's parking garage.

To his great relief, Harold never totally lost control. But as John parked the car, he couldn't help but notice how quiet his previously chatterbox charge had become. 

John let Bear out of the car first and then tackled the more complicated job of helping Harold out without bruising either his partner's head or his pride. Taking hold of Harold's elbow once again, he led his wobbly friend to the elevator.

John unlocked his front door, flipped on the lights, and led Harold and Bear inside once he'd visually checked the room over.

Harold stopped in the middle of the enormous living room area, staring at the closed blinds on the windows. "I shoulduv fhound a plasz whith lesh windhoz."

"This is perfect, Harold. I like the windows, but at night the light behind us makes them kind of dangerous. Here, come sit down." John parked Harold on the couch and quickly crossed to the kitchen. Returning to the couch, he held out a couple of Motrin and a cold bottle of Deer Park spring water. "Here, you better take these now." It was a testament to either how drunk his partner was or how much he trusted him that Harold didn't ask what the pills were for before swallowing them. Once Harold had drunk most of the bottled water, John asked, "Do you think you could sleep now?"

Harold nodded. "Bathroom firsht."

"Will you be okay in there on your own?" John checked.

"I'hm nevhur on my owhn," Harold replied.

"What?"

"Watsch," Harold said and hauled himself up off the couch.

John stifled a smile as Bear got immediately to his feet and trailed the wobbly Harold into the john. A short time later, he heard the toilet flush, then running water, and then the door opened and Harold and Bear returned.

Harold stared blearily around, as if surprised to find himself in John's apartment.

"I think you're about to crash, Harold. You might want to get horizontal."

"Huh?"

"Time for bed, buddy," John said. "Better get out of that suit."

"Can I borrow a phair ov your pujammas?"

"Sorry, Harold. I don't own any. How about you sleep in your skivvies?" John suggested.

"'kay." Harold began a uncoordinated attempt at undoing his tie and unbuttoning his vest. He got the tie open, but the vest buttons appeared to be beyond his meager skill set at the moment.

"Need a hand?" John asked.

"Pleez."

John moved to his partner and deftly undid the buttons of vest and shirt as Harold swayed back and forth as if they were on a ship moving through troubled waters. It was an oddly intimate action, something John couldn't remember doing for a living man before. His mind shied away from the memory of the number of times he'd had to do it for the no longer living. Pushing those ghosts back, he concentrated on the here and now. On Harold's body heat and strangely pleasant scent. The expensive fabric of both shirt and vest were warm from their contact with Harold's skin and still sweet smelling from his cologne. He could smell the scotch on his friend's breath, too, but for some reason, Finch's cologne and personal scent were more noticeable. John helped Harold out of the jacket, tie, vest, and shirt, moving to hang them over his desk chair as Harold undid his trousers.

John was back in time to catch Harold as he tripped over his pants while removing them. 

"Shorry," Harold apologized, gripping John tight as John righted him. 

Harold's undershirt was a blindingly bright white cotton. John stifled a smile as he took in the loud patterned boxers his partner was wearing. "Are those ducks?"

"Cats. Shrowdinger's cats. Grace got 'em for me." After a moment, Harold said, "I'm nevher gonna hold her again, am I?"

"Never's a long time, Harold. Lots of things can happen. Into bed, partner," John directed, guiding Harold over to the unmade bed. Normally, John would have worried about changing the sheets, but he didn't think Harold was going to be bothered by such niceties in his current condition.

"Where'll you shleep?" Harold asked as John lifted the covers and stabilized his friend while Harold stiffly moved his legs onto the mattress. The action looked like it hurt. In fact, most of Harold's movements looked like they were painful, John recognized.

"The couch is fine."

"I dohn't wanta put you outuv your bed," Harold protested. He looked very small in the enormous bed.

"You picked a really comfortable couch when you furnished the loft. I fall asleep there a lot, Harold. Don't worry. Give me your glasses and I'll put them on the night table here, okay?" 

Harold handed his glasses over. John folded them carefully and set them within easy reach. 

Harold squinted up at him, seeming very vulnerable without his thick glasses on. 

John studied the familiar, strong features. With his cleft chin, high brow, slender lips, and large ears, Harold wasn’t a man who would ever have been considered handsome. But somehow John found those bookish features strangely endearing. His own mouth curved up in a helpless smile as he told his partner, "You call me if you need anything, okay? I'm going to leave the bathroom light on, in case you need to go."

"'kay."

John took his own turn in the bathroom, leaving the light on behind him, as promised. After removing his running shoes, he stripped off his jogging clothes and left them on the chair with Harold's suit. He could feel his partner watching him from the shadowed bedroom as he stretched out on the couch in his underwear and pulled the afghan there down on top of him. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes.

John heard Bear's paws click on the parquet floor as the dog moved from the living room to the bedroom area. A second later, a pitiful whine sounded.

"Shorry, Bear. We're not home. You schleep down there tonight, 'kay?" Harold said into the darkness, his voice nearly as woebegone as the dog's.

"Harold?" John called, his own voice thick with emotion as he turned on his side to face the bed. He didn't know what it was about this isolated loner that got to him so bad. 

There wasn't much light, but even from across the shadowed room, John could see the start Harold gave as he answered, "Yeah?"

"Consider yourself home. Bear can sleep anywhere you want him to."

"His paws get the bed all dirty," Harold fretted.

"I don't care about the bed. I only care about what's in it. Bear, opspringen," John ordered Bear up in Dutch, deciding to take the problem out of his inebriated partner's hands. A strange warmth seeped through him as he watched the dog jump up onto the bed by Harold's knees and settle down with his head pillowed on Harold's good hip in what was obviously a familiar position. 

It was dark, but John could see the sweet, drunken smile that touched Harold's lips.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Thankx fhor thakin' susch good care of me. No onez bheen here fhor me sinz Grace."

"You took really good care of me when I was shot last year. Our relationship is a happy co-dependency, remember?" John reminded Harold of the words his partner had spoken in the restaurant earlier.

"Yeah."

"Good night, Harold."

"Night, John," Harold replied, his hand settling on Bear's head, his fingers gently stroking. 

John shivered as he observed that tender touch, his body trembling as if those delicate fingers were moving on him. He sucked in a shocked breath at the visceral reaction, his mind reeling under the implications. Harold . . . this was Harold, not . . . 

Not who? Who else was there in his life? 

The object of the feelings moving through him might be shockingly inappropriate, but in a strange way, it made perfect sense. There wasn't anyone he was closer to right now. Or ever, his brain objected. For all that he'd loved Jessica with all his heart, his Non-Disclosure Agreement had made it impossible for him to ever even tell her what he did for a living. As if he could ever have confessed to Jessica that he was an assassin. But with Harold . . . 

Finch knew all the horrible things he'd done – and liked him anyway. That gift had changed John in ways he couldn't understand. When he'd agreed to work with Finch saving the numbers, John had anticipated that the paranoid distance Harold had displayed in those early days would be the norm for their working relationship. The idea that they could have any kind of off duty relationship had never even occurred to John, because it was so unthinkable. They both knew the horrible acts he'd performed in defense of their country. While a man like Finch might be realistic enough to concede that he had to employ a monster to fight worse monsters, such grim necessity didn't predicate that the useful monster's employer would have to befriend him. But, for all his initial fear, Harold Finch was simply too good a man to use anyone that way. Somehow, John had managed to win Harold's respect, and, having done so, Harold wasn't able to continue to keep his emotional distance. 

Sort of like what had happened with Bear, John realized. In those first few days after John had left the guard dog with Harold, his partner had referred to Bear as a distraction. Now, look at the two of them. Harold would probably never be able to admit it out loud, but he practically doted on the dog. John hadn’t realized that his partner was letting the dog sleep on the bed at night, but it didn’t really surprise him. Harold had one of the kindest hearts he’d ever encountered. That, more than anything pulled him to the man.

He watched Harold’s stroking hand slow as his friend drifted into sleep. His gut clenched tight with a type of yearning he’d thought Kara Stanton had burned out of him years ago. More than anything, John wanted to cross the floor and lie down beside Harold and the dog on that bed. The compulsion was nearly impossible to resist. 

John didn’t even think it was sex he wanted. Oh, he could do it with Harold Finch in a heartbeat, but right now, his need was more complicated than that. Sex was easy. What he wanted from Harold almost transcended his ability to interpret. There was physical desire mixed in, and that he understood, but most of the emotions churning within him weren’t that easily defined. What he wanted more than anything was to simply lie down beside Harold and wrap his hurting partner in his arms and hold onto him until Harold wasn’t sad any more. He wanted to make his serious friend smile, to hear him laugh. And he wanted Harold to want his arms around him.

John wondered what he’d have to do to be invited into Harold’s bed. How could he work things so that Harold would be looking for him at night the way Finch had been looking for the dog? 

His brain froze as that unbidden question absorbed his complete attention, forcing John to acknowledge this new twist in his reality. He wanted Harold – Harold . . . who was still in love with his ex.

Harold had never given him any indication that he was anything but heterosexual. As far as obstacles went, that was a fairly formidable one. 

But John was nothing if not determined. Once he set his mind on a goal, he always found a way to achieve it. He was realist enough to recognize that this new objective wasn’t going to be easy to attain. 

The conscienceless CIA operative he kept chained deep inside him gave a sardonic laugh. Not easy? That evil shadow pointed out that Finch was currently drunk and emotionally vulnerable. The perfect target. All he had to do was climb into that bed and wrap his arms around Harold like his heart was aching to. John had enough confidence in his own skills to know he’d be able to sweep his depressed friend completely off his feet. It might even be what Harold needed.

Only . . . that kind of action would never be right. Nothing he did with Harold could be dishonorable. John reminded himself that he kept that demon chained where it was for a very good reason. Harold had saved his life and sanity. His partner was the only entirely good and wholesome thing in his life. No way was he going to allow that calculating monster inside him to play head games with Harold.

No, whatever course he chose, John was determined that it would be as upfront and upstanding as this incredible man he had feelings for. This was not a situation where John could afford to make any mistakes. So, he was going to have to move slowly and carefully, at Harold’s pace, not his. 

That was okay. Harold was worth waiting for.

Burning the image of Harold and the dog snuggled on his bed into his mind, John closed his eyes. Hope was a new feeling for him, but its warmth followed him down into sleep. And for once, there were no ghosts waiting for him.

*~*~*


End file.
